Christmas On Snowbird Mountain

“I prefer Indian.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’m not offended by Native American. The term is just a little too politically correct for me. Others like it, and that’s fine. And to answer your question, no, I don’t wear my hair long to appear more Indian. It’s vanity. With short hair I look about twelve.”

She smiled at his honesty.

“I thought maybe you were trying to look authentic.”

“To do that, I’d have to cut it to stand up in a ridge along the back of my head down to my neck, and then shave the rest.”

She wrinkled her nose but didn’t say anything.

“That was the style for Cherokee men before about 1800, except for the Long Hair or Twister Clan.”

“I don’t think you’d look too good bald.”

“Neither do I.”

“I’m envious of how long and glossy your hair is. And the color’s gorgeous.”

“I was just thinking the same thing about yours.”

He reached out and picked up a strand, gently rubbing it between his fingertips. She hardly breathed.

“To tsu hwa,” he said softly.

“What?”

“Redbird.” He must have realized he was still touching her, because he suddenly let the hair drop, thrusting both hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Your grandmother called me that earlier.”

“Consider it an honor. The cardinal, or redbird, plays an important role in our legends.”

“How so?”

“It’s revered by my people. There’s a story behind how the bird got its color.”

She waited, but he didn’t go on. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“I can’t tell the story like my grandmother can.”

“Your grandmother’s not here. Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”

Finally he acquiesced.

“Years ago the redbird wasn’t red. He was plain and brown. One day, while gathering food for his family, he came upon a hurt wolf lying on a riverbank. The wolf had chased a raccoon up a tree and the raccoon had sneaked up on him while he was exhausted and plastered his eyes shut with mud. Thankful for the bird’s compassion in helping him remove the mud, the wolf broke open a paint rock, a geode left from a volcanic eruption, and used it to give the bird a bright red coat. When the redbird flew home, his mate was so excited by his new color, she wanted some for herself. But she was afraid to leave their babies too long so she went and got only a little bit of the paint for herself. She was a good mother and hurried back to the nest. Today redbirds are symbols of beauty, kindness, compassion and dedication to family.”

Susannah was thrilled to be compared to the little bird. She’d always hated her hair color, but he’d made her see it in a whole new way.

“That was so lovely. How do you say ‘redbird’ again? To-tso…”

“To tsu hwa.”

“To tsu hwa,” she repeated several times until she’d memorized it. “Thank you for the story. I feel like…like I’ve been given a gift.”

“You’re welcome.” He stared at her a moment longer than was healthy for her heart, then looked away. “I need to check my messages and return my calls. Do you mind?”

“No, go ahead. I’ll wander about, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. On that table is a mosaic I’m repairing for a 1930s era pool, and over there’s a ceiling I’m designing in conjunction with another company in California. The rest are…I don’t know…different jobs and separate pieces for a museum show. Look all you want.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, after reviewing his work and overhearing his telephone conversations, Susannah had decided that Ryan Whitepath was the most gifted person she’d ever met, but also the most disorganized.

She supposed his problem was a right brain, left brain thing, or that his overabundance of creativity had been offset by his lack of order.

His mosaics were brilliant, the colors earthy and the designs so stunning that Susannah felt spiritually changed just looking at them. But from a business standpoint, the man was hopeless.

He had no system for organizing his quotes and keeping up with correspondence, and apparently hadn’t sent out invoices for work he’d completed weeks ago. The clutter on his desk made her cringe.

He tried to pull up a letter he’d typed on his computer to discuss with someone on the phone, but he couldn’t find it. After several failed attempts, a lot of grumbling under his breath and the accidental deletion of a file, Susannah walked toward him.

“Here,” she said, leaning over his shoulder. “Let me help before you do something you can’t repair. What’s the customer’s name?”

“Health Systems of North Carolina.” He spoke into the phone receiver. “Hold on a minute longer, Mr. Baker. We’ve almost got it.”

She couldn’t find a folder that resembled the name so she did a search and came up with one document called healthnc.doc.

“That’s it,” he said. He read off the figures to his customer and promised him an invoice within the week. When he’d ended the call, he asked Susannah how to print it, since he couldn’t remember the procedure.

“You can go into your File menu and down to Print, hit Control-P on your keyboard, or click on this icon on the toolbar. See how it looks like a little printer?”

He tried to print, but got an error message. “What the—? I did what you said.”

She reached over and pushed a switch. “It helps if you turn on the printer.”

“Oh, yeah. That makes sense.”

She printed two copies. He seemed surprised when they actually came out into the tray. After, she used a utility program to retrieve the file he’d deleted and restore it to its original folder.

“Thanks for the help. I bought the computer expecting it to save me time. But I forget from one day to the next how to use it. Pretty stupid, huh?”

“Success takes practice.”

“Nia’s better at it than I am. It’s downright embarrassing to have to ask a six-year-old for help when I do something wrong.”

She cleared off a spot on the corner of his desk so she could sit.